The Paradox of an Unfinished Rhapsody
by EucalyptusKisses
Summary: "The laws of celestial mechanics dictate that when two objects collide there is always damage of a collateral nature." And the laws beg the question: who bears the devestation? Sherlock or John? (Companion piece to "Save You Tonight". Slight Johnlock)


John misses how they used to talk every minute of every day, how he was able to tell Sherlock everything that was on his mind, sometimes verbally. Sometimes not at all - the detective just knew, and would make shit tea to make up for the ruins in John's mind.

He loves Sherlock more than he loves himself, more than he loves Mary. More than anyone in this world. It doesn't matter if it's a platonic love or romantic love, or a queer platonic love.

John loves a man who has a crocodile smile stretched over the most fragile heart he's ever known.

Sherlock has been in exactly one relationship in his life, and it lasted exactly two months, eight days, seventeen hours, six minutes, thirty point five seconds. He dated one Victor Trevor when they were both attending Oxford. It did not work out, because Victor didn't understand him.

His mother told him, when he was teasing a melancholy piece out of his violin at two am on a balcony (instead of laying on his bed crying about the loss of Victor) was that every relationship would fail until you met the right person, and then you would realize why everything else didn't work out.

Sherlock thought she was wrong for eight years. Eight long years he thought she was wrong, and then he met a suntanned, invalidated army doctor. And he understood that he had spent twenty nine years waiting to meet the person who held his heart without either of them realizing it at all.

John thinks Sherlock is a force of nature, and he is still reeling from their collision, but he'll never falter; not with Sherlock as his guiding light (though his detective will argue that John is the guiding light in their relationship).

There are ragged ruins in John's mind, memories of his adventures with Sherlock sanding away the sharp, wounded stains Afghanistan left in his brain. Sherlock was a salve; he relieved the pain embedded in every cell of his body.

Then Sherlock died, and John began to date Mary. And now he has to find a way to breathe without Sherlock, has no idea how to, but John has to.

He has to, even though he is the best person he can possibly be when he's with Sherlock, and when Sherlock is gone, nothing is right until he comes back.

And it's all so fucked up, isn't it? That he needs Sherlock so much.

"A human being is not to be handled as a tool but is to be respected and revered," Sherlock tells John one day. They're sitting in 221B one afternoon. The soldier is slowly tapping at his keyboard, typing up a finished case. The detective is on the couch, limbs sprawled out, his soft robe flung about his body.

"What're you on about?" John asks. He's giving Sherlock half his attention - _why why why, am I not good enough? _thinks Sherlock and now his thoughts are spinning out of control, banging around in his head.

The detective huffs, and he fixates a look on John until the latter looks back at him and complains, "You're doing The Look again. Can't you just, you know, _tell _me what's going on in that head of yours?"

"You respect me," Sherlock explains, irritation still present in his voice.

John raises an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Well, it's _not_." Sherlock twists over so his back is facing John, and he's not sure why he's annoyed with his soldier, but he is - maybe because at times like this it seems incredible John is so bloody slow about everything.

He hears a breathy chuckle moments later - _good, good, not in trouble, still in his good graces, _Sherlock thinks - and then John is lightly touching his shoulder, but only for a second, as if in reassurance. Maybe it has a different meaning. He's not sure. Never was all that good with social etiquette, physical etiquette . . .

John feels like he's been ripped to shreds.

Is there even a term for someone who's been betrayed by their best friend, than their wife?

He cannot believe Mary is not Mary, that she has lied so _beautifully _to him. And he was taken in by her. John wonders if Sherlock is right, if he really does unconciously pick out dangerous people to spend his time with because he's an adrenaline junkie.

But if that were the case, wouldn't being around Mary have kept his limp away, the accursed thing that came back swinging after Sherlock's "death"?

Then again, she is a kindergarten teacher, and that's not a dangerous makes him wonder why he even sought her out in the first place.

She inserted herself so neatly into his grief it took him a while to realize she was there in his constricted bubble. Then John used her like a cane to hobble around, to lean on. To lessen the numbness, but also to amplify it.

Mary was just a companion, and then she became more. John doesn't remember when it happened, and since it seemed like he wouldn't be able to spend every millisecond with the person he actually wanted, he decided she would do as well.

Is there even a word for when this happens?

"I just don't understand," John tells Mrs. Hudson dully. He's in her flat, staring listlessly at a cuppa she made for him, at the tin of biscuits she put next to the teapot on the table they're both sitting at, across from each other. "You're supposed to be able to trust your spouse."

Mrs. Hudson just makes a _hmm _sound. After three beats of silence, she says tentatively, "Well, you two did have a whirlwind courtship, wouldn't you say? Very touch and go. You need to take your time in deciding who you're going to marry. It's a very big commitment, dear; it can't be just anybody."

"Mary wasn't just anybody." John doesn't know why he's defending her. It's making him question his sanity. "Or at least, I thought she wasn't."

"I remember I thought the same thing about my husband," the old woman says, chuckling and tutting at the same time. "Thought he was the most charming young thing, and goodness, he just made me feel like I was walking on air all the time. I had such a time trying to refuse him the few times I did . . . he was always able to change my mind so quickly, I couldn't remember afterwards why I had an objection." She sighs, shakes her head. "He was so good at playing me, John. That's what you have to be careful about. You can't be with someone who can't respect your basic rights."

John shrugs, says nothing because he can't think of an adequate response. That and he doesn't want to encourage her to go off on one of her monologues. He drains his cup and stands up. John thanks her for her time today, says he has to get going.

Except he has nowhere to be.

John's not sure if 221B is still his home, because there are so many loose ends with him and Sherlock, and the strands are all tangled together and mismatched. He doesn't know where he stands, where he and Sherlock stand.

He has no epicenter to hold his world together, and it feels like everything is just coming undone, all over again.


End file.
